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<title>(i don't wanna) hear the wedding bells bloom by bettycooopers</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24794686">(i don't wanna) hear the wedding bells bloom</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bettycooopers/pseuds/bettycooopers'>bettycooopers</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>illicit affairs [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Riverdale (TV 2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Cheating, F/M, Post-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 10:49:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,703</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24794686</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bettycooopers/pseuds/bettycooopers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>She wakes up slowly, her eyes still closed even as her breathing changes, moving from the depths of sleep to the surface of the waking hours. </p><p>She’s getting married today.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Archie Andrews &amp; Betty Cooper, Archie Andrews/Betty Cooper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>illicit affairs [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858483</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>140</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>(i don't wanna) hear the wedding bells bloom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>barchie babies, welcome. i have not published fic since probably 2013, but these two have my mind spinning so! here we are. to be real with you, this is some angsty nonsense that stems from me wanting betty and archie to just touch each other's faces and cry. please send help, my mind is a black hole outside that just leads to that end.</p><p>also, this exists in part because <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/packedyoursaturday">packedyoursaturday</a> decided to plague me with this ship. like, it's genuinely her fault i even like these idiots. i guess that is a thank you in some way, if for nothing else, for making me cry at a near constant rate about barchie. happy almost birthday to the og moose, i will be researching just how to petition truly to distribute in canada for the rest of the day today in your hono<i>U</i>r.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>She wakes up slowly, her eyes still closed even as her breathing changes, moving from the depths of sleep to the surface of the waking hours. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s getting </span>
  <em>
    <span>married</span>
  </em>
  <span> today. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shivers slightly, feeling a chin pressed against the top of her head, a chest against her back, knees folded against her own, her feet pressed against calves, arms wrapped around her waist. She lets out a slow breath and leans back into the body behind her. Someone steady, strong, and familiar. She slides one of her arms out of his grip and traces her fingers along his forearm, tracing the freckles on his skin without looking down at them, knowing the pattern they lie in. She’s known how they sit since she was four years old.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm,” he hums against the top of her head, “sleep, baby.” He is barely awake, and she knows he’ll fall back asleep if she lets him. He’s not a morning person, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span>, even though he acts like he is, now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am,” she lies, her voice thick in her throat. She peers down at her manicured fingers, running in lines along his skin. She slides her hand behind her, rubbing her palm over his upper arm, reaching back and pressing them against the side of his neck, feeling his pulse pulsing beneath her fingers. “You sleep,” she breathes, and she feels her voice sticking, the words not letting themselves out, “shh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods softly against the top of her head, pressing his face into her hair. She feels his breathing shifting back into sleep against it, in the way his chest moves against her back. She grazes her hand over his shoulder and back down, her fingers settling again on his forearm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She opens her eyes, looking out the window. The light is starting to spill into the room, overcast and gentle. She’d left the curtains open a bit on purpose last night, knowing that if the light wasn’t streaming in, the sun affronting her eyes as it reached a higher point in the sky, she would stay here. She wouldn’t get married today. She would lay in this bed, in these arms, until she turned into dust. The sun would wake her. The sun would remind her. The sun would push her to get up, even if it’s only because she can’t stand to look at it anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It can’t be more than 5:30, which means she has a while. The wedding isn’t until 6 tonight, so she’d told everyone she planned to sleep in. They’d meet her here at noon. That was enough time to stay wrapped up in these arms, breathing in this smell, holding onto that feeling before she really had to think about it, or start waking him up so he wouldn’t be here when her sister showed up with the kids and the photographer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t want to think about that, though – about her sister, about the kids, about the photographer, about why they’re all there in the first place. So instead, she shuts her eyes and settles herself back against him, smiling at the way his arms tighten around her, the way his heart beats steadily in his chest. She’s glad she can’t see his face, right now. She knows how he looks – she’s seen it enough times to know without even really trying to think about it – and she knows it makes her heart swell, just seeing his face in sleep. Seeing his face at all, really, but in sleep is…something else. He looks like nothing bad has ever happened to him, when he sleeps. He looks like she has never happened to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She imagines it, even though she doesn’t really want to. His skin smooth and tanned from working outside, the scar between his brows pronounced, but not raised or jarring. His eyes warm and brown, glowing sometimes when the sun hits them just right. He’s got a slight bump in the bridge of his nose, so tiny you wouldn’t catch it unless you were up close. His mouth is wide and sweet, always twisted into a smile, even just the slightest. He’s got stubble today, even though she knows he’d shaved – she couldn’t have beard burn, not when her fiancé doesn’t have a beard – and she loves him with a little hair on his face. It makes him look like the version of himself she most wants to be with: the older version, the one that builds stages for the kids to put shows on in the garage and grumbles about how much he hates using tools even though he wouldn’t have it any other way, the one that makes breakfast on Saturday mornings so she can stay in bed and doesn’t even mention the pretty bad burn he’s got on his hand from knocking it into the frying pan, the one who wears reading glasses but still squints at the labels on jars and cans in the grocery store instead of putting them on. He looks just like the man she wants, with all the qualities of the boy she had and all the things he’d picked up along the way, without her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sucks in a hard breath, not realizing it until it’s happening, and squeezes her eyes shut. Her hand grips onto his forearm. She always takes off her ring when they do this, and she suddenly wishes she could see it – glinting in the light against his skin. She wishes it was his ring. She feels her brain crashing down on her – </span>
  <em>
    <span>you love him, he’s here, he wants you, you want him, it doesn’t have to be this difficult, you are </span>
  </em>
  <span>making</span>
  <em>
    <span> it this difficult</span>
  </em>
  <span> – and she lets her eyes drip, tears tracing down her cheeks and onto her neck and she wonders if they’ll make their way down to his hand. She has practice with this, now – crying so he can’t feel it (he can always feel it), crying so it makes no sound (it doesn’t matter, he always knows) – so she tries to keep herself quiet, tries to settle her mind. When it does this, she never really knows which way it’ll turn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, she loves him, and yes, he’s here, and yes, he wants her, and yes, she wants him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she could just say fuck it all and let them be here, happy, period. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thing is, though, she doesn’t deserve that. She knows she doesn’t – especially not now, not after everything she’s put everyone through. Not after all the money that’s been spent, not after all the sleepless nights sitting with her mother and her sister and boards of seating charts and color swatches. Not after all the time she’s spent </span>
  <em>
    <span>swearing </span>
  </em>
  <span>on her life, on his life, on her mother’s life, that these things are over for her. That he just loves her, and he probably always will, and that’s not their problem anymore, because she doesn’t love him back. She manages, somehow, to cross her fingers (or in extreme circumstances, her toes), when she says it – “but I don’t love him, Jug,” – and even though it’s a childish practice, it helps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After all the times she’s outright lied because she wanted these arms wrapped around her…she doesn’t deserve to have them, forever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong,” he says through sleep, even though he already knows. They both know. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> getting married today…but he is not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing,” she lies, badly. She doesn’t usually try with him – it’s not worth it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Betts,” he breathes, pulling one arm from its spot and moving it up, wrapping it more around her torso and brushing his fingers over her shoulder. She presses her wet face against his arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing,” she says again, her voice raw. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not nothing,” he murmurs, his mouth against her hair. “It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It has to be nothing,” she says, her voice as firm as she can manage it (read: not firm at all).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Betts,” he repeats, but stops. He draws his thumb over the slope of her shoulder. He reaches his hand a bit and flexes that same thumb against her collarbone. “I’m not going anywhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” she whispers. She leaves her face against his arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you,” he breathes, and she feels her throat clench. It is all she wants. It is all she </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span> wants. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” she hiccups. She does not get the satisfaction – she does not allow it to herself – of being able to tell him that she loves him back. Besides, he already knows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you love me,” he says, his voice a little stilted than she wants it to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” she repeats. She squeezes his arm. He tightens his grip around her. They lay there in silence, their bodies pressed together, breathing. She cries. She doesn’t mean to. She thinks he might be, too. Her hair feels a little wet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They watch the sun rise. “It looks like a good one,” he says at one point, after she’s sniffled a little and shifted her face so it’s lying on his arm, her eyes squinting at the light pouring into the room. “Not a cloud in the sky. It’s going to be beautiful.” She shakes her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to,” she whispers, and she feels like she might throw up. She feels his body get a bit rigid behind her. Her breath is wet, again. He keeps brushing his fingers over her skin. The thing is, she has never actually said these things out loud before, even to him. She has felt them hard, and she has sat with them on her own, knowing. She has never said them to anyone, though. She’s sure he knows -- he knows she doesn’t want to be doing any of this, right? By the way his body feels right now, maybe she’d thought wrong. “I don’t want to marry him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Betty,” he breathes. She feels her body sag and she’s thankful she’s lying down, because she wouldn’t be able to hold herself up right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>, now, though.” She feels him loosen his grip slightly on her and she thinks maybe she just lost him – she’s been lying through her teeth to everyone, anyway, but not to him, and now this coming out at the last possible second, she thinks maybe he’ll just go and make it easy for her. He’s not even an option anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t go anywhere, though, just like he said. Instead, he turns her, helping her roll over so she is facing him. She keeps her eyes closed. He takes her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and she feels his other hand come up to press against her cheek. He tilts her face up and she feels his breath on her skin. “You don’t have to do anything, Betty. You don’t have to marry him.” She tries to bow her head down and press it to his shoulder, but he holds her steady. “Look at me, baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she cries, her voice low in her throat. His voice sounds different -- like she let him grab something he’s been desperate for, but hasn’t felt like he could touch. She knows what his plan is, now. She’s said it: she’s said she doesn’t want to get married today, she’s given him the opportunity to give her the out she wants, and she knows he is going to push her the way he is </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> pushing her to be better, to stop hiding, to be the Betty he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> she can be. She doesn’t know if she can be that Betty, not in this moment, not ever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She also doesn’t know if she can look at him and hear him say the words and not try, though. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Look</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he sounds desperate, his voice sounds wet. “Look, baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She feels like she’s trembling </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere</span>
  </em>
  <span> as she opens her eyes and finds his face close to hers. She stares at his forehead. If she looks at his eyes, it’s over. “What,” she croaks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t marry him,” he brushes his thumb over her cheek. Her face is wet, and she doesn’t know if it’s wet from him or from her. “Don’t marry him, okay? You don’t…you don’t have to do this, we can just…</span>
  <em>
    <span>go</span>
  </em>
  <span>. We can go away from here, and it’ll all…,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It won’t just work itself out, Archie,” she hasn’t said his name in what feels like months. She calls him babe, or baby, or Arch, but never </span>
  <em>
    <span>Archie</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It feels sticky in her mouth. She hates herself for knowing exactly what he’s going to say. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> says it’s going to work itself out. Somehow, it never really does. “It won’t. There’s too much to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>It will</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he’s desperate, now, she can feel it in the way he’s holding her face, in the way he’s breathing, in the way his words wrap themselves around her ear. “It will, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>promise</span>
  </em>
  <span> it will. You love me, and I love you, and we can,” he sniffs, loud, and she looks at his eyes because maybe she likes to hurt like this. Her vision blurs, his face wobbles. “We deserve to be happy, Betty. Don’t you believe that? We both deserve to be happy and marrying him isn’t going to make you </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s not going to make either of us happy.” She hears the words and knows he has thought them in his head thousands of times, maybe millions of times, without saying them. She loves him for it – for letting her be the one to approach it, for hanging back and knowing that she would probably break his fucking heart and knowing that it would be worth it, because </span>
  <em>
    <span>they </span>
  </em>
  <span>have always been worth it to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She feels gutted when she realizes she’s not sure if they have always been worth it, to her, though. They </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> worth it to her. She sets that in stone in her mind, etches it. They are </span>
  <em>
    <span>worth</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> deserve to be happy,” she manages, her voice thick, her hands coming up to hold onto his wrists. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> deserve to be happy, Arch. Don’t you see that I’m not…I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> the person that’s going to make you happy? I’ve never been able to do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are the </span>
  <em>
    <span>only</span>
  </em>
  <span> person that’s been able to do it, Betty,” she tightens her grip on his wrists as he speaks. She lets her eyes flick down to his wet cheeks. She frowns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she breathes. “I…I mess things up, Archie. Look at you,” she lifts one of her hands and brushes her fingers over his wet cheek. “I’m not making you happy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Betty,” he breathes, and she feels him let go of her face. His hands wrap around her and press against the small of her back, “Betty,” he repeats, his lips brushing over hers, “believe me when I say this,” he murmurs, “okay?” She nods softly, watching his closed eyes, his eyelashes wet, “you are the only person that makes me happy. You are the only phone call I wait for; you are the only text I want to get, okay? When I see you, all the shit I have been feeling – whatever it is, why-ever it is, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>goes</span>
  </em>
  <span>…because I’m looking at you, because I’m holding you, because it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He lets out a soft little breath and she doesn’t know when the last time she breathed was, if she’s honest. “Do you think I’d be doing this if you weren’t worth it for me? If I didn’t need you to…stand up, half the time, to walk straight? I </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> you. I always have. I’m messing everything up, too, </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span> are messing things up</span>
  <em>
    <span> together</span>
  </em>
  <span>…because it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>worth</span>
  </em>
  <span> it, because we make each other </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She slides her hands up to his face and slips her fingers into his hair and holds him, there, against her. Her heart is pounding in her chest and her fingers ache and her legs move to wrap themselves around him, too, keeping him as close as she can get him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She thinks about it for a long moment. She thinks about the time she saw him, backpack slung over one shoulder, walking through the airport in Denver because it was a safe spot for them to spend the weekend – she’d had a meeting for a story she was working on and Archie had just bought himself a ticket without much of a question – and her heart had felt like it might explode. Broad chested, red haired, smiley, sweet Archie. The way his eyes traced over her body like he knew every inch of it (because he did), the way his hands knew exactly where to touch her and when, the way his lips always found hers in the right exact second. The way her breath left her body the second she caught sight of him. The way she knew he was in a room before her eyes found him there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She never felt that when she looked at Jughead – the exploding feeling. She never felt that when she looked at anyone…only when she looked at Archie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d wrapped his arms around her and she’d pressed her face into his chest. She’d breathed in his smell and thought about how incredible it would be, to do this for real one day. To hold onto him somewhere where people knew their names, where people knew they were Betty and Archie, knew what that </span>
  <em>
    <span>meant</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She’d thought about what it might feel like to feel this way, every day. To be able to touch him, and smell him, and see him, and know he was smiling like that because he got to touch her, and smell her, and see her – every day, no less.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her throat feels dry. Her brain stops. He is offering her that feeling, every day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t want to get married today. Does she have to get married today?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A voice, maybe her own, maybe his, screams from the depths of her, somewhere. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please, don’t.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>As quickly as that, it’s settled. She’s not getting married today. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can’t just run,” she says, after a long few minutes. Her voice is low, and she hears him suck in a breath. She watches as he opens his eyes. “We can’t leave everyone behind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” it’s his turn to be short, and she knows it. He looks at her skeptically. She doesn’t blame him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to,” she shakes her head gently. Her voice is full as she repeats herself, “I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” he breathes, his fingers brushing over her cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to,” she chokes out. “I can’t. I can’t get married.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why can’t you,” she feels it, him needling at her, him pushing her, and it’s exhilarating. Him </span>
  <em>
    <span>pushing</span>
  </em>
  <span> at her. She wants it forever. “Why can’t you get married?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because,” she doesn’t recognize her own voice in her ears, it’s scratchy and erratic and wet and stretched too thin. “Because I wouldn’t be marrying </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Arch. Because I </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span> you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His lips are on hers before she’s even finished speaking and his hands are on her waist, pressing against her hips. His tongue is in her mouth and she feels herself crying but she can’t stop kissing him, so the salt of the tears drips down and she can taste them on her tongue, on his tongue. He pulls back and presses his forehead to hers. “You love me,” he breathes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She feels her lips twisting into a smile. She gives herself the satisfaction of saying it again. “I-,” she slides her hands up to his cheeks, holding his face in her hands. “I love you, Archie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you, too,” he says, his voice rough, and then his lips are back on hers. She feels him kissing her, her hands in his hair, his body over hers, and when he pushes into her it feels like nothing has ever felt before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” she breathes, tugging on the ends of his hair and watching as he leans down, nudging his nose to hers, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she angles her hips and slips her leg around his waist, pulling him in deeper, groaning at the feeling of him filling her, stretching her. He slides his hand between them and presses his fingers against her and she pulls her face to his, kissing him and whining into his mouth and keeping him there, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I love you,” she murmurs, her lips brushing his as they move together, </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s smiling, his eyes wet, his hand soft on her face as they come, her, then him.  She wraps an arm around him tightly, kissing any part of his face she can reach and keeping her fingers twined into his hair. She feels him vibrate an, “I love you, Betts,” against her shoulder and she sniffs, hard, her hands moving to trace over his shoulders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” she whispers, her tears spilling out of her eyes and rolling sideways down her cheeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks over at the window again as she presses her lips to the hollow of his neck. The sun is higher in the sky. She needs to make phone calls, she needs to make sure people don’t start getting ready, she needs this to be finished. She feels him move, a soft laugh in his throat, and she figures he can tell her brain is whirring, but when he slides his head down, she knows what he’s going to do. He brings his lips to her neck, sucking at the skin, scraping his teeth, leaving a mark. He’s never been able to, before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arch,” she breathes, her hand coming up to press against the back of his head. He kisses the red spot on her neck and she lets out a breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mine,” he says, against her skin. Her skin burns. She feels like she may break, for once, in a good way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She finds his eyes. “Yours,” she says, her voice gentle. “Always.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles at her, that Archie smile that always makes her weak. He kisses her softly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s not sure how she ever really thought she was getting married today.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>you can follow me on <a href="https://twitter.com/cherhasthoughts">twitter</a> or <a href="https://bettycooopers.tumblr.com">tumblr</a> if you feel like watching me break down in real time!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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